by Angela White
Bracing against the stiff, gritty wind that was trying to shove her off her feet, Samantha shifted her battered kit onto her other shoulder, stepping carefully over broken glass and wide cracks in the rough, weedy pavement.
Ahead, there was a lump in the street.
With the sole of her boot flapping at each step, Samantha drew in a ragged breath and forced herself to keep going. When she passed the uniformed man, who had been shot in the head, she wiped away a stray tear, telling herself it didn’t matter if they were all dead. There would be something in there that she could use, maybe even a radio that she could listen to for some idea of where to try next.
Longing for the warmth of the sun she could just make out behind the thick layer of debris covering the sky, the storm tracker instinctively stayed to the left as she came to the top of a hill.
Glad for her goggles in the heavy, reeking smoke that swirled over the top of the road in waves, she moved between the trees so she wouldn’t be outlined by the sky. Kneeling, Sam peered down at the place she would have been, where she would have died, if not for the chopper crashing.
Buried inside the Cheyenne Mountain complex, the tunnel to the government’s once impenetrable compound was open, releasing pillars of thick, black smoke. It drew Samantha repeatedly as she scanned the devastated shack city that was spread out into the distance. There was no sign of survivors.
The refugee camp that was spread across the two lane road was a sad, pathetic mix of moldy box homes covered in plastic, boards and wood of every kind formed haphazard living quarters. There was also a crowded cemetery at the far corner, telling her that these people had come here after the war. These were most likely the families of those who’d been taken in the draft, and they had been here ever since, slowly dying on the indifferent doorstep of safety. Had anyone been let in?
Almost able to hear the hum of flies swarming the dead, Sam swept row after row of destroyed cooking, sleeping, and laundry areas in horror. There was even a junkyard of cars, stripped of everything usable or tradable, with more than a few of the vehicles used as shelters.
She raised her goggles, unable to stop the tears. No. Not one of them. These people had been desperate, dying. They would have overrun the guards the second the door was opened.
This was something the government had planned to do nothing about, and those who were running things inside had probably observed the slaughter with relief. Well, probably until one compassionate soldier or unwilling “draftee” had been unable to watch people, maybe even his own family, be murdered, and the compound had been breached.
Sam settled deep in the cover of the flower-dotted brush, sheltered from the sharp wind while she waited for the fires to finish burning out. It could have happened that way. Then again, these people might have been the bait to get the inside doors open. That also had a ring of truth to it, and she examined the battle scene with new understanding.
Blackened, smoldering piles of debris highlighted dead bodies lined up near the compound’s entrance, mostly men with gunshot wounds. The women and girls were gone, obviously taken. Samantha pushed away the thought of how bad their lives must be now.
She wasn’t sure if she spotted anything moving or not. Her view was blocked by mountain slopes of constantly swaying spruce trees, but from this vantage point, she might be able to spot their campfires tonight.
The thick layer of clouds threatened rain or worse by morning, so she set up her small shelter–a painstakingly woven roof made of rubber bands around straw and leaves, all lashed over a wooden frame. Tomorrow she would go down. She was dreading it, but hoped there would be little bits of food and maybe, just maybe, the location of another compound.
2
Early the next morning, with the smoke mostly gone, Sam went to discover what remained of the facility.
She had a hard time forcing her feet to pass through the blackened, bloody entrance to the bunker. She tried not to stare at the dead, but again, she couldn’t help crying for them as she advanced over hands outstretched for mercy that hadn’t come. Another two hundred lives, gone.
Footsteps echoing eerily, Samantha slowly entered the tall tunnel with nervous movements as sharp, glittering pieces of glass crunched loudly under her boots. Thin clouds of smoke still lingered above her, and snapping flies tried unsuccessfully to invade her long trench coat and gloves as she traveled. Despite the season, there wasn’t any snow on the ground here right now and all the rotting corpses had created the perfect environment for bugs of all sorts.
The red lights that signaled a generator in use comforted her as the dim daylight faded from view. She wasn’t sure she could have come in without it. The feeling made her think of the King novel where the guy walked through a tunnel crammed with cars full of dead bodies–in the pitch black, with only a lighter. Not her and not for any reason.
She had a gun, a Taser that may or may not work, two knives, and a can of mace, but she didn’t feel any safer as she wound deeper, ears straining for any sounds. This new world was full of death and destruction, and there was more of that down here in these long, dark, concrete halls. As she picked through each room, Sam kept a hand on her weapon, thinking the downside of the red lights was that she could see the horrors.
Blood smears and bullet casings were hard to avoid slipping on as she trekked through the dead men in uniform that littered the hall. She flipped her belt light to high as she stepped into the first room. It was obviously a security area, the four stiff bodies and blood splatter making her leave quickly.
The next three rooms held more of the same. There were no corpses, but the spray on the walls showed that there had been. She wondered why the bodies here had been removed, but the rest hadn’t. A trap for troops just making it to the complex?
Catching a faint hint of gasoline, Sam traveled by open doors marked “Utilities” and “Lavatories,” knowing they wouldn’t hold anything she needed. The tunnel she was in quickly dead-ended into a spacious bunk area with bodies in the beds. They wore clothes that were an even mix of military uniforms and Capitol Hill casual.
Not sure if she could make herself go into the room despite the lights, Samantha went back to the stairs, thinking she would search that area last. There had to be three dozen corpses in that big room and she didn’t want them between her and the outside for any length of time.
Certain the main compound would be deeper, Sam chose the door marked “Sub-basements E–M.” Moving into the bowels of the Cheyenne Mountain operations center, she could hear water gushing like falls beating down.
The next level was “K,” marked “Water.” She stepped through the doorway, but only stayed for a minute. The reservoir was there, but the reek of gasoline told her the attackers had filled their own supply and then ruined what they couldn’t carry, so that no one else could use it.
There was damage on the stairs too, torn pieces of signs and posters, more bullet casings. Sam eased further down the narrow metal steps, wincing when her sole flapped loudly. She went through each door she found, coming right out of most–the fire damage and reek of corpses was simply too much.
On the wall next to the door labeled only as “M” was a charred and broken hand scanner, and Sam knew she was in the right place. Open, riddled with gunshots, the door hung crookedly on the frame and looked as though it had fared the best. The room itself was destroyed–broken furniture, bodies, glass, and bloody papers littering the thin red carpet. She scanned the room, but saw no other exits, no other doors. Surely, there was more than this?
Climbing the stairs to the previous floor, Samantha noticed another door in the shadows of the wall, another melted hand scanner. When the door wouldn’t open, she frowned. Survivors who had locked themselves in? What should she do?
Sam peered down, saw that the floor was blackened, as if it had been burned. Her stomach lurched as she realized what odor was lurking under the harsh smell of smoke.
The storm tracker stumbled up the metal stairs, trying not to ga
g. After that, it was a struggle to make herself open the next door, let alone explore the two or three tunnels off each one. She found closets, storage areas, and a lot of offices and strategy rooms, but the damage was complete. The tacky blood was so thick on some floors that the Seal was no longer visible.
Samantha found a lounge that had been stripped of everything, two burnt-out cafeterias, laundry rooms without a sheet or blanket, and three medical bays that were heavily damaged. Not even a box of bandages had been spared. The men who had done this had made sure that anyone who survived would find nothing to keep them alive.
Back on the ground floor, she was drawn to a small painting of President Clinton. It hung askew, revealing another dark shadow. Set into the stone, it was a “throw room.” It was a secure area where the Secret Service could literally toss a person so they’d be safe while the agents guarded the hatch, the only way in or out. This one had a bloody handprint on the rail that she avoided as she hefted herself into the four-by-four opening. It clearly hadn’t held.
The hole dumped her out onto a thick mat in a narrow hall with seven doors. She listened intently before opening each one but heard nothing. Although constructed with comfort in mind, the presidential retreat contained no little treasures with which to line her pockets. Nothing had survived, and the smells had her covering her mouth as she explored the site of her country’s last stand.
The sixth door was a secondary war room: computers were destroyed, communications equipment was lying broken on the carpet, and bodies of uniformed men that Samantha vaguely recognized were draped across chairs and desks. The blood puddles and spatters were impossible to avoid as she checked stacks of papers and books. None of the intact electronics responded to her fingers.
Samantha realized that the dark red writing on the walls wasn’t marker, and eased out of the room with her stomach in a knot. There was nothing here.
Scratch…
Sam spun, fingers fumbling for her gun. She stopped when she saw the big rat, thinking if not for the noise, she would try to kill it anyway to keep it from doing what the insects were doing.
The last door led to a small lavatory. When she saw no bodies, not even blood smears, she allowed herself to use one of the dusty, cobwebbed stalls, thinking peeing had never been so bittersweet. Even taking paper from the almost empty roll hurt and it was a struggle not to cry. It was all gone.
A shadow, dark and small, suddenly dropped from the ceiling above her, landing on her bare knee.
“Damn!” She slapped at the mutated freak as it ran upward, missing its extra legs. It was fast, and she gritted her teeth as the arachnid bit her, sending a rush of pain up her leg that shot straight into her spine.
Sam squashed the fleeing spider against her jeans, grinding the mutation into little pieces, and she wiped the remains down the dusty stall wall with a smirk of short-lived satisfaction.
“Serves you right!”
She wiped the bite with the last of the paper on the roll, a bit uneasy at how sore the wound already was, and then put it from her mind. She would check the lounge she had passed on the ground floor, and then get the hell out of this mausoleum.
3
The climb out of the bunker took her longer and made her even more anxious as Sam half waited for someone (a zombie) to jump out of one of the doors she was passing. She breathed a sigh of relief when the faint, dim glow of daylight came into view at the other end of the tunnel. One more room and then I’m out of here!
Sam stepped into the smoky, vomit-smelling vending machine room, spying unbroken glass. She ran to the three tall dispensers eagerly, but every ring was empty.
She slapped her hand against the dirty glass in frustration. “Damn it!”
“Help...”
Sam jumped, fumbled for her gun with shaking hands.
“Yes, please.”
Samantha drew in air, glad her bladder was empty. She raised her belt light for a better view at the man dying on the brown-and-white striped sofa.
“Please.”
There was total awareness in those dead eyes, and Sam wished her peripheral vision would disappear. The gore and blood was everywhere, and she breathed through her mouth to keep from gagging. As she stepped closer, trying not to gape at his emaciated body, she realized it was a white sofa. The brown was his blood and his rotting body that had begun to dry into the material. He had the sickness.
“Please…help me.”
The pitiful whisper made the man seem more human
“What can I do?”
“Kill me,” came the immediate answer.
Before she could tell him no, her hand raised her gun.
She couldn’t do it, though, and the man moaned. A wet, liquid sound, she heard the grinding of his jaws as he coughed violently. Scarlet flew from his mouth, ejecting one of his teeth, and reddish drops of agony rolled down his distorted face.
“Please!” he begged.
She raised the gun again as his gasps for air filled the room. His body was no longer responding to his commands, the radiation destroying him from the inside out. She pushed past her horror to talk, voice shaky.
“Where else can I go?”
He struggled to answer. “Only a base…in Cheyenne still taking calls. All gone...faulty air valves.”
“What about the Essex?”
“No! Ground…Zero. Evac’d after the hit… No transportation made for…radiation.”
His eyes had begun to run with reddish-green liquid in thick clots, but she could still see the hell in them.
“There must be some place. What about all the joint chiefs and secretaries?”
“Breached... Burned alive...wouldn’t touch me.”
Samantha’s mind went to the only locked door and the smell of gasoline she’d noticed, and she shook away the horrible images. At least their struggles were over now.
“What about the men who did this?”
The dying man on the gory couch heaved, coughing, and Sam retreated as thick blood and puss sprayed from his grossly swelled lips.
“Mexican...guerrillas...came during the...storm. Hit Fort Carson first. Attacked the refugees...and took females. Doors opened, malfunction...retaliation for the war.”
Sam couldn’t think of anything else to ask, and the man raised a finger, skin sliding nauseatingly to the side of the bone.
“Please…do it now. Don’t know...anything else.”
She tried to smile as she raised the gun. “I’m Samantha Moore.”
“Pat... Mi...Michaels.”
She smiled in horrified recognition of the former press secretary, and when he shut his eyes and tried to nod, she pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed, and his body jumped like Melvin’s had when she had hit him with the Taser, and then Sam was running, steps echoing, mocking her flight. She had no idea where she would go, only that she shouldn’t have come here. These were not her people anymore.
Chapter Ten
Hard Goodbyes
February 6th
Ohio
1
She needed help.
It had taken Angela a while to convince herself that calling Marc was what had to be done to get her son back. The voice of fear was constantly warning of punishments, but now that she’d called, it was also a struggle to keep from doing it again. She hated being alone, hated being scared.
Angela was dreading the journey she was about to make, but most of all, she worried about the edge of panic in her dreams that said it would all be much worse than her life with Kenny, if that was possible. Her nightmares said she would face dangers that made the Marine seem like an amusement park ride, and if not for the deep love in her heart, she wouldn’t go.
The woman frowned at her thoughts. None of her fears mattered. Only her boy did, and she could wait no longer to leave. The circled day on her calendar was still over a week away, but she was going now and needed to know where Marc was. She had to be sure he was really coming this time. Without his help, her plans st
ood little chance.
She wasn’t looking forward to telling him her story, planned to put it off as long as she could, but the odds were against her making it alone. And then there was Kenny. He wouldn’t just hand her son over and let them go. Between her Marine and the terrain, she would definitely need help, and Marc was the only one she had left to turn to.
“You can’t!” her fear shouted, telling her Kenny would kill her for it, and the door in her mind stayed firmly shut.
Angela stood stiffly in the dark hallway of her apartment building, fear preventing her from making the call. Once she did this, once she left, there was no giving up. The urge to go inside and keep waiting was incredibly strong, but her heart took control.
“I’ll kill him if I have to! He won’t keep us apart!”
The rush of angry energy blew her fear away, and the door in her mind swung open. Her breathing became shallow, hair rising with static, and power ran through the mud-tracked hall as the witch gathered the energy needed to find the mental doors that would cover hundreds of miles. Her eyes fluttered shut as the memories washed over her, strengthening the connection.
Jet-black hair, long, feathered, and soft on her fingers as their mouths touched. He was the only man she had ever loved and she called for him now, releasing a powerful vibration that rattled like an earthquake.
Marc!
His hands had been light, gentle magic as they crossed forbidden lines.
Marcus!
He had loved her and left, and she had never recovered.
Marc!
I’m here, Angie.
He sounded older, used, and she winced at the pain of having him in her head. It reminded her of when it had been just them against the world.
“Are you still coming?”
Fear of the past made her hold her breath; fear that whispered, “No,” that she would be alone forever.
